Free Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines by Michael Bond Page B

portholes let into the paving he could see an underground swimming pool, bathed in blue light.
    The scene beyond them was like a stage set, probably the work of the same interior designer. There was hardly a leaf out of place. The elegance of it all made his own herb collection seem very small fry, but at least his was a hands-on operation.
    He began to wish he had worn another suit, but then Monsieur Leclercq hadn’t given him the opportunity to go home and change.
    ‘How strange that my husband should die in your arms,’ said Madame Chavignol. ‘It must have been a shock to you.’
    ‘You saw it happen?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse.
    She nodded. ‘Normally I would have been in the studio, but last night I chose to stay at home and watched it all on television instead. I don’t know if that made it worse – my not being there – but even if I had been I couldn’t have done anything. It was all over so quickly. It’s just… I know I shall always regret not being with him at the end.’
    Seating herself in a white painted lounge seat with matching cushions, she motioned him towards a more formal upright chair facing her. Between the two of them, but slightly to one side, there was a slatted garden table.
    As Monsieur Pamplemousse made himself comfortable he noticed two champagne glasses, one of which was still half full.
    ‘Forgive me. Have I called at an inconvenient moment?’
    ‘Not at all.’ She brushed his protest to one side. ‘It was all so sudden… the staff are shattered, of course. But they are carrying on as normal. Claude… my husband and I always tried to have lunch together. It was part of our routine .’
    Reaching down, she picked up a telephone, put through the order for Pommes Frites’ water, then paused. ‘In fact…’ she looked at her watch, ‘since it is almost twelve-thirty, perhaps you will do me the honour of joining me?’
    It wasn’t what he had bargained on, but obviously it hadn’t occurred to her that he might refuse. It wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.
    ‘I imagine the police have been in touch with you,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, as she replaced the receiver.
    ‘They were here last night and again this morning. They are awaiting the report of the autopsy. Until that is done I can’t begin to make arrangements with a funeral director. But there seems little doubt as to the cause. They say it was cyanide.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered whether he should mention the offending oyster shell, but decided to play it by ear.
    ‘And you have no idea how it came about – or who might have been responsible?’
    Madame Chavignol shook her head. ‘None. Claude had his enemies, of course. Who doesn’t? That is especially true if you happen to be in the public eye. But as for deliberately poisoning him…’
    She waited a moment or two while the manservant appeared, filled both the glasses from a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and began setting the table for two; stainless steel place mats – again in the shape of an interlocking double C – Christofle cutlery, Riedel glasses.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse took the opportunity to take a closer look at the garden. Beyond the patio, sunlight filtered through the trees, illuminating a mixture of styles: freshly raked gravel paths, their curves contrasting with the straight lines of others made of old stone paving; little nooks and crannies housing unrestrained shrubs surrounded by clipped box hedging; old shrub roses and clematis planted alongside more formal beds.
    Barely audible soft music came from hidden loudspeakers . Fish played in a pool watched over by a pair of bronze herons. Other pieces of sculpture were dotted around; a rotunda here, a domed arbour made of distressed pinewood there.
    The whole was surrounded by ancient ivy-covered stone walls, recessed in places for ornaments. From where he was sitting it was hard to tell what lay immediately behind them.
    One thing was certain. The Director had a